Once a Killer

by Martin Bodenham

“I’m Michael.”

  “I got that much.” Duane pointed the stubble toward one of the sofas tight up against the wall. “Sit.”

  Michael sat cross-legged on the near end of the couch. The pistol in his right pocket rubbed against his waist as he leaned into the flaking leather arm. In the background was the constant humming tone of the tattoo machine.

  “I don’t make any money when it stops,” Duane said, obviously noticing Michael’s reaction to the constant background noise. He fired up a cigarette and took a few seconds to inspect his visitor. He raised his eyebrows. “Nice shoes. They look expensive.”

  “Not really.” What was the right response? It was certainly not meant as a compliment. Either the price had just gone up or the man knew already Michael didn’t belong there—probably both.

  “I hear you need someone,” Duane said before Michael could say anything more. He blew out a large smoke circle, and Michael watched as it drifted up to add more staining to the yellow ceiling.

  “How does this work?” Michael said. “I mean, what do I need to tell you? Do you want to know why I’m here?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass why you’re here. That’s your business.” Duane took another long drag on the cigarette. “You got the money to go through with this?”

  “I have enough money, and I have it with me.”

  “You don’t know how much it is yet.”

  “Well, I mean I can get the money. That’s not a problem for me.”

  “When do you need it done? If it’s urgent, it’ll cost you more.”

  “I don’t want to delay things. When’s the soonest this could be done?”

  “Couple of weeks.” Duane exhaled more smoke. “Maybe a month. Depends on who and where. Nobodies and local come cheapest.”

  Michael hadn’t expected a menu. “The where shouldn’t be a problem.” This was easier than he’d feared now that the conversation had started. “New York City.”

  Duane nodded his approval then massaged the stubble. “And the who?”

  This part wasn’t so easy. Once Michael had given Duane the name, there was no going back. He uncrossed his legs and sat up, the pistol in his pocket rubbing against his belt now. “The man’s name is James Grannis.”

  Duane ran two fingers along the bristle under his chin. “Don’t know him.”

  “There’s no reason you should. He runs a hedge fund in lower Manhattan.”

  “Sure can tell there’s a recession on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Time was when people like you resorted to the courts. Certainly, I never saw you, but now…”

  “People like me?”

  “Isn’t that what you are? Another Wall Street player?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I do.”

  “No offense. I was just curious.” Duane stubbed out the cigarette in the full ashtray on his desk and lit up another. “How do I find him?”

  “His business is called the Grannis Hedge Fund. He has a suite of offices at 26 Cedar Street.”

  Duane picked up a pen from the desk and started scribbling down the address. The buzzing sound from the tattoo gun stopped. He flinched and stopped writing, looking up at the door. There were voices from the next room. Duane seemed to relax and resumed making his notes.

  “Where’s he live?” Duane asked, putting his pen back down.

  “I don’t know that. Is it important? I know he also has another office in Brooklyn.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a warehouse more than an office: 220 Sullivan Street. It’s down near the container terminal, not far from where the cruise ships come in.”

  “Sounds like a nice, quiet spot.”

  “It is, but he spends most of his time at Cedar. I doubt you’ll find him in Brooklyn.”

  Duane reclined in his chair. “What’s he look like? Do you have a photo?”

  Michael shook his head no. “The hedge fund has a web site, though. There’s a page on there with pictures of the team. Grannis is on there with his bio.”

  “That’ll help.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Duane looked irritated by the interruption. “Come.”

  Ponytail opened the door and stood in the doorway. “Is it okay if I leave you to lock up?” he asked. “I’m done for the day.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you in the morning. Remember, the first one’s here at eight thirty.”

  Michael watched the two men talking. Here he was, arranging to have another man killed, and Duane was acting as though it was an everyday occurrence—business as usual. How many people had this man killed? Thank God he knew nothing about Michael, apart from his first name.

  “Let’s talk about money,” Duane said when Ponytail had left.

  “How much will this cost?”

  “Five thousand now, and another five when it’s done. Cash only.”

  Is that all? Was that the going rate for taking another man’s life? Less than the cost of a small car—more like the price of a family vacation. There was a whole criminal world out there, and Michael realized he knew nothing about it.

  “A lot of people prefer not to risk meeting up afterward,” Duane said, breaking into Michael’s thoughts. “If that’s troubling you, then you can always pay the ten grand now, and we won’t have to see each other again.”

  The man had just confirmed he’d wiped out a lot of people. Michael was certainly not interested in seeing him again. “I don’t want to meet once this is all over. I’d rather pay the whole thing up front.”

  Duane looked at Michael and said nothing. A few seconds later, he held out his upturned right palm.

  “I’m sorry.” Michael tapped the outside of his fleece. “Of course you want the money.” He reached into his inside pocket and retrieved the brown envelope, shielding the contents from Duane’s view as he counted the new fifty dollar bills he’d taken out of an ATM over the last couple of weeks.

  Duane took the money from Michael. “Plus two grand for expenses.”

  He must have seen how much Michael had left in the envelope. That was stupid, but Michael was in no position to argue. Other than a bit of gas, both men knew there were no expenses involved.

  Michael handed over the extra money. “Here.”

  Duane locked the cash in the top drawer of the desk. “Do you need me to tell you once it’s done?” he asked, putting the desk key back into his baggy denim shorts.

  “No. I don’t want any communication after today. I’ll know when it’s all over.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “I do have one question, though.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “How will you?” Michael struggled to find the words. “How will it be done?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, not really. I was just—”

  Duane pulled a gun from under the desk, and Michael recoiled.

  “Relax.” Duane broke into a smile for the first time. “I’m not going to shoot you. It’s been pointed at you ever since you walked in here. If I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now.” He extended his arm and held the dark gray weapon sideways on so Michael could see it. “It’s a Glock 36. Forty-five caliber, six-round automatic,” he said, salivating over the description.

  “Okay.” Whatever that means. This one would have gotten along well with the salesman at Forstmann Firearms. Both as crazy as one another.

  “Two rounds from this.” Duane made a shooting motion in the air. “Boom; your Mr. Grannis will be no more.”

  Michael had heard enough. He wished he’d never asked. “Are we done?”

  “I have everything I need.” Duane returned the Glock to its holder under the desk.

  Michael stood up, and Duane led him through the tattoo studio and unlocked the front door to allow him out. “You take care now,” he said as Michael walked away.

  When he turned it on, the Sat Nav said it would take two hours to get home. It was probably longer at t
his time of day. It was ten to five now, which meant he was bound to run into rush hour traffic on I-95.

  Slipping on his safety belt, a wave of relief washed over him. Finally, the ordeal of the past few months was coming to an end, and he was going to get his life back. Was he wrong not to feel guilty about planning the murder of another human being? Whether it was wrong or not, there was no remorse, not even a slight doubt that he was doing the right thing. Rondell deserved what was coming to him. He’d created the whole situation and had given Michael no choice. If he wasn’t brought down now, he was bound to go on until he’d ruined Michael’s career and destroyed his family. He deserved everything that was coming to him.

  Before hitting the ignition button, he took out his iPhone and called Caroline.

  “I should be home no later than seven thirty,” he said. “Do you want to go out for a pizza with the girls? I’d like to.”

  “You sound in good spirits.”

  “It’s been a good day.”

  “And you’re actually going to be home at a civilized time. A pizza sounds lovely.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Still at the office, but I’m almost done here. Don’t worry. I’ll be home at seven thirty if not before.”

  “I’m going to tell the girls, so don’t be late.”

  “I promise.”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “I love you.”

  Michael heard the throaty exhaust noise first. Then a white Toyota pickup emerged from the back of the strip of shops as he was finishing his telephone call. The truck slowed almost to a stop as it went past the Lexus. Michael looked at the driver, who waved as he went by. It was Duane. He must have locked up the shop and left shortly after Michael.

  The thought hit him hard: Duane had seen his car. What if he’d made a note of the license plate? No doubt, with his criminal connections, he could easily find out that the car was titled in the name of Michael Hoffman of Westport, Connecticut.

  Christ. You idiot.

  Chapter 40

  SIX WEEKS AFTER THE BREAK-IN at Crouten’s apartment, Caravini asked Abi to call him into his office. “Tell him no excuses this time. I want to see him before he heads out.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, “but I know he’ll tell me he’s busy. Twice this week, I’ve told him you want to speak to him. I get the impression he’s trying to avoid you.” Abi turned to leave.

  “It’s not an invitation, Abi. I want him in here now. And if he’s out, call his cell and get him back here. Today.”

  An embarrassed-looking Crouten appeared in the doorway of Caravini’s office a few moments later. “I haven’t got long,” he said. “Things are really kicking off on the Cayman investigation.” He remained standing at the door, seemingly reluctant to enter.

  “That one can wait; it’s a slow burner. This is much more important.” Caravini waved at him to come in. “What’s happening on Grannis? You promised me results, but I’ve heard nothing from you in weeks.”

  Crouten took his usual perch next to the desk and avoided all eye contact. “Turns out you were right about that one after all,” he said, settling into the chair. “He’s a small fish. I couldn’t see it going anywhere, so I called a halt to it.”

  “You did what?” Caravini’s voice was raised. “Without consulting me first?”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind, since you were the one who thought it had no legs in the first place.”

  “That was before you discovered a Dudek’s partner was involved. What happened to him?”

  “Michael Hoffman?”

  “Yeah. Last time we spoke, you were convinced he was the one feeding information to Grannis.”

  “I got it wrong.”

  “And his associate? The one we put the frighteners on. What happened to him?”

  Crouten fidgeted in his seat. “In the end, he came up with nothing. Believe me, I pushed him hard.”

  “Sounds to me you gave up too quickly.”

  “I don’t think he was holding out on us or anything like that. If there was anything he knew about Hoffman, that kid would have squealed.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the stock trade evidence you uncovered on the Collar takeover.”

  “Sure, we were able to trace some of them to Grannis, but there was no evidence to prove he actually bought the stock based on inside information.”

  “What did the kid have to say about that when you grilled him?”

  “He knew nothing about that, either. It left us with nowhere to go.”

  Caravini shook his head. “I don’t like this, Floyd. Why would a corporate partner from one of this city’s major law firms meet with an asshole like Grannis? It doesn’t make sense. I’m stunned you don’t see it.”

  “I’m not saying there’s nothing going on, but we’ve had Hoffman and Grannis under surveillance for weeks. Other than Hoffman turning up at Grannis’s offices on Cedar that one time, we don’t have anything to build a case on. It’s all circumstantial.”

  Caravini pushed his chair back and walked over to the window, keeping his back to Crouten. “What am I going to say when the press come calling?”

  “Since when did we start managing our investigations to suit them?”

  “We don’t.” Crouten turned around and leaned against the window frame. “But I promised them more indictments were in the pipeline. When I did that, I had in mind our Dudek’s partner and Grannis. I should never have stuck my neck out. I only did it because you were so damn confident this was the big one.” Caravini sighed. “I shouldn’t have listened to you at all. Now we’ve got squat.”

  “I’m sorry. At first, I thought we were onto something big. How did I know you were going to make promises to the press? When I said all that before, it was only a hunch. The evidence was building, and I thought Towers would squeal after we first met with him.”

  “You were much more certain than that at the time. There was no mention of a hunch. You were absolutely convinced you were onto something.” Caravini pointed his finger at Crouten. “You knew how much this meant to me. It wouldn’t take a lot of intelligence to work out what I’d do with the information.”

  Crouten shrugged. “You can’t pin that one on me. You know better than I do that investigations can hit a dead end even when they look promising.”

  “You’ve never been wrong like this before. Your record is as good as they come.”

  Crouten raised arms. “I guess this is my first screw-up. I’m not proud of it.”

  “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

  “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

  “That’s not how it looks to me, Floyd.”

  “I had nothing to report, so I put my head down on our other cases.”

  “Are any of those likely to bring us quick results?”

  “I’ll take another look, but I doubt it. The last thing I’m going to do now is raise your hopes.”

  After Crouten left his office, Caravini sat sulking at his desk. He’d just broken one of the cardinal rules of self-promotion: always under-promise and over-deliver. In some of the press interviews he’d given recently, while mentioning no names, he’d virtually set out a trial timetable for Hoffman and Grannis. And when pushed for specifics, he’d given the press strong hints about a partner at a major New York professional services firm and another hedge fund manager involved in a conspiracy to commit securities fraud. He’d been a fool to rely on Crouten’s judgment without first checking the evidence himself. Unless he had another high-profile scalp soon, another bone to throw to the press, momentum would be lost and he could kiss the mayoral election goodbye.

  There was still something he didn’t get: Why had Crouten been avoiding him recently? It wasn’t like him to withhold bad news. He was normally thick-skinned. Something about his manner didn’t seem right just now either. Crouten was one of the most tenacious agents he’d ever known, and yet, on this one, it appeared he�
��d given up without much of a fight. Grannis was up to something; that much was certain. The evidence had to be there if they looked hard enough.

  Caravini picked up the phone. “Abi, can you come in for a moment?” He reached into his top drawer for some Tylenol.

  Seconds later, Abi came in.

  “Shut the door,” he said, narrowing his eyes to reduce the pain building up behind them.

  She walked over to his side of the desk and placed a bunch of opened envelopes in front of him. “The mail just came,” she said. “Can I have your signature on these while I’m here?”

  She slipped two memos under his nose, and he took his time signing them, his left hand running up and down the inside of her thigh under her skirt.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he said.

  “Anything.”

  Caravini stopped groping her.

  “I was enjoying that.”

  “It’s related to work.”

  Abi looked disappointed and moved around the desk to take a seat facing him. “What do you need?”

  “You’ll need to be discreet.”

  “I’m good at that. Remember?”

  “This is serious.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve got a headache coming on. That’s all.”

  Abi pointed to the tablets next to the phone. “Let me get you some water for them.”

  “In a moment.” He leaned forward over the desk and lowered his voice. “I want you to find out who helped Floyd on the Grannis investigation.”

  “I know Brad Kaminski was helping him at one stage.”

  “That’s right; he was. Find out if there was anyone else working the case.”

  Abi looked confused. “Why don’t you just ask Floyd?”

  Caravini raised his left eyebrow slightly. “That’s where the discretion comes in. I don’t want him to know I’m asking questions.”

  “I see. Has Floyd done anything wrong?”

  “No. Why do you ask?” Caravini’s tone was ill-tempered. The migraine was now gnawing at the back of his left eye.

  “It’s just that when he left your office just now, he looked stressed. No, more like worried. I thought maybe you’d had words with him. I’ve never seen him act that way.”